


Equilibrium

by entanglednow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Vampire Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out Stiles only gets the awesome, super-strength, vampire powers at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a sequel to [Strange Days](http://archiveofourown.org/works/584790), but can stand alone

Stiles is still waiting for the whole 'vampire' thing to sink it. He's been waiting for a while, and it still feels a lot like a sick and hilarious joke that someone's going to call off any minute.

It turns out he only gets the awesome, super-strength, vampire powers at night. During the day he's just Stiles, sluggish, headachey, oh-my-god-sunlight-hurts, Stiles. Which seems like exactly the sort of bullshit catch that supernatural powers come with around here. This is why vampire hunters traditionally attack during the day, isn't it? Because that's when he's apparently at his most completely and totally useless. Which - crap, there are almost certainly vampire hunters, aren't there? Considering that the werewolf hunters he's met so far have tended to be a bunch of shoot fast, don't question the gooey remains later, psychopaths - he's not looking forward to running into vampire hunters. He figures it's a safe bet that they're not going to be the definition of love and tolerance. What with the new liquid diet Stiles has going on.

Or not going on.

Mostly not.

Ok, cards on the table, completely not at the moment. There is no diet at all right now. In fact, he's trying not to think about it, because it makes the back of his throat hurt, and his teeth do things they shouldn't. It makes him feel ill, hollow and sort of shaky - and not entirely in a bad way. So he's trying his best not to think about exactly what's going to happen. Which is why he's sitting on Derek's rotting porch, where he's been sitting all afternoon, not looking in the direction of the sun, or thinking about eating, at all.

Though he does realise suddenly that Scott's still talking, and he doesn't actually remember when he started, or what he's talking about. Oh, and now there's a pause, and he clearly expects some sort of response from Stiles, to whatever it was he was talking about. A pause that Stiles cannot fill.

"Yeah, I didn't hear a single word you said there, sorry." He shrugs an apology. "I was - I was really just kind of staring into space there, and not listening to what you were saying at all."

Scott looks briefly annoyed, and then seems to remember that for once in their supernatural lives what Stiles has going on beats his own problems hands down. It doesn't feel half as good as Stiles thought it would. 

"Is it something else, something new for you?" The frown shows up slowly on Scott's face. "There were a lot of things I got distracted by in the first few weeks, you know the smells and the stuff I could hear. The way everything was sort of in my face, even when it wasn't actually in my face."

Stiles shrugs, because he honestly doesn't know. He's been avoiding putting much near his face since this started. Except Derek that one time, but that was an accident and he managed not to eat him, so he's calling that a win. Managing not to eat people he's acquainted with is the new high point of his day.

"I have no idea, but isn't that going to be a barrel of laughs, finding out about all the weird shit my body does without my permission now? Or, y'know, maybe I was distracted by the sudden realization that you have eight pints of blood just sloshing around inside you."

"What?" Scott looks horrified. Which is absolutely Stiles's fault, and he mostly feels guilty about it, mostly guilty anyway, Scott used to be better at this.

"I'm joking, that was a _joke_. Oh my God, you used to be better at knowing that." He jostles Scott gently with his arm, to make sure he knows it this time.

"Yeah, that wasn't really funny," Scott doesn't look comforted at all. Stiles thinks about jostling him again, but there's only so many times you can do that without making it weird. It's weird enough already. He can't decide if joking about his own terminal illness is in poor taste. Technically it's his terminal illness, which he'd already died of, so it's probably fine.

"Too soon?" Stiles guesses.

"You..." Scott frowns. "To be honest, you didn't look entirely like you were joking there."

That's a little unsettling.

"I was joking," Stiles says firmly. "I mean, yes, I'm aware that it's also technically true, but I was genuinely joking. I would not deprive you of any of your very important blood. I'm happy that your blood is inside you, which is absolutely where it should be, at all times. I'm not interested in eating you, in absolutely any definition of the word."

"To be fair, I can't read your heartbeat any more," Scott says carefully. "You're sort of there, but you're...quieter."

"Because I really don't have a heartbeat any more," Stiles points out. He knows because he checked, several times. That's still - not weird for him, more sort of fucking terrifying, which is why Stiles tries not to think about it too much. About all the ways he may or may not dead. Screw it, no, he's technically dead, there are few ways to sugar-coat it.

"Do you know how weird that is? Seriously? It's like you're there but you're not, and you smell like -" Scott stops, and makes a face of extreme constipation, which Stiles takes to mean that he very nearly said something that Stiles might consider upsetting.

"What, what do I smell like?"

"No, it's cool. I probably only notice because of the werewolf thing." Scott's gesturing in a way he obviously thinks is distracting. But, as usual, he's doing a really bad job of it, it's far too obvious.

"I spend most of my life - unlife, undeath, man that's going to get old quickly - existing around you. You can't just say stuff like that and leave it hanging. If I smell like a corpse that's the sort of thing I'd like to know, so I can invest in, like, a shitload of extra deodorant or something."

"You don't smell like a corpse," Scott insists, though his face is still twitching, in a way that says what he does smell of isn't exactly healthy. His face does not bode well for Stiles's self-esteem.

"Come on, Scott." After what Stiles considers is a pause that's just a shade too long he smacks Scott on the shoulder.

"You don't smell completely dead," Scott offers at last, reluctantly.

"I don't smell completely dead." Stiles digests that for a second. "Wow, that's not exactly the solid reassurance I was looking for, Scott, just so you know."

The steps creak behind them, and Stiles waves a hand out to pull Derek into the conversation.

"Hey, Derek, you wanna maybe do better than, 'you don't smell completely dead'? Since Scott's mostly dancing his way round telling me what I do smell like now." He waves a hand to encourage words from the usually wordless, giant werewolf in the back.

Derek's mouth presses into a thin line, on anyone else that would be pissed off, but Stiles is learning to recognize Derek's 'I'm taking time out of my day to consider this problem, and you will appreciate it,' face.

"You smell like dirt, clean death underneath, sort of bleached of everything else. Sterilized."

Stiles gives him a long look.

"So that's a no then, that's a no I cannot do better than 'not completely dead,' Stiles. But I will do my best to disturb the shit out of you." Stiles nods. "I have no idea why I expected anything else out of you two, to be honest."

Derek shrugs. "You asked."

"We've mentioned that you have crappy people skills, right?"

Derek glares at him, because he doesn't care that Stiles could eat him now, he's still a dick. Which is...oddly reassuring.

"You asked for honesty, not people skills." Derek gives a sort of offended shrug.

But that does make Stiles honestly curious. "And if I asked for people skills?"

Derek doesn't even crack a smile.

"Shower, use deodorant.

"Don't go near cadaver dogs?" Stiles adds as a suggestion, and then ignores the way Derek manages to smile at that, though he's clearly trying not to. "Awesome, you're both awesome. Thank you for your love and support."

Scott looks physically pained.

The silence drags out, and Stiles already knows what's coming, what's been hovering on the edge all day. Derek's the one who pushes them there, in the end.

"Do you want it now? he asks quietly.

"No," Stiles says, straight away, no pause at all. Even though that's the reason they're here after all. That's the reason he's been _stalling_. "But I'm fairly sure that's not going to be an option for too much longer. So we might as well get it over with."

Derek ventures back into the house, and a few minutes later he comes back out, carrying a pale mug, which he brings down the stairs and then offers in Stiles's direction.

"You put it in a mug?" For some reason that makes Stiles want to laugh himself sick. Funny in a way he only half understands. Because where the hell else was Derek supposed to put it, unless Stiles is supposed to drink it straight from the freakin' animal "You put it in a mug with _cats_ on it. Dude, where did you even get this?"

"Just take it."

He does, and Derek's fingers feel burning hot when he passes it over. When he holds the weight of it, and Stiles can already smell it, already feel the way his face warms and his fingers tighten.

"What is it?" he asks, as clear as he can manage with a throat that feels too tight.

"Deer," Derek says flatly. Which doesn't make much difference to the swirling liquid, but Stiles's face pinches anyway.

"And if it poisons me, I mean, if animal blood is completely indigestible to me?" There are so many questions he's asking under there, and judging by Derek's expression he hears every one of them. 

"Then we think of something else."

Yeah, that's one of those things they're clearly not going to talk about, until it turns out they have to. Which Stiles would probably feel better about if it was due to optimism, and not some stubborn sort of denial, because that's _never_ gotten them into trouble. He might not want to talk about it, but he's not going to pretend that there are all that many right sides to this. Mostly it's all dark sides, murky sides, oozing sides.

Stiles stares into the mug, at the way the redness sways with the faint motion of his hand.

"Are you going to watch?" He manages, through a suddenly numb mouth.

Neither of them move, though Scott looks uncomfortable at least.

That's a yes then. So he might as well just get on with that. It's not as thick as he's expecting, it slips from one side of the mug to the other, painting the sides a slick red. His teeth hurt, a stiff sort of ache, in a way that says they want to resettle in his mouth, and he's fighting that sensation, though he's not sure exactly how. He hasn't - he hadn't looked in the mirror when he felt like this before. He doesn't know if he has - he probably does - he almost certainly does.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Stiles says carefully. Which is a lie, though they can't tell that any more. It makes him feel better to say it.

But then suddenly he's holding an empty mug, and there's blood painted across his teeth. His lips are burning, mouth warm and tingling like he's pressed his tongue against a live wire. He's shaking, and part of him wants to throw up, wants to immediately throw up - but he knows that isn't going to happen, warmth is spreading like fire down his throat and under his skin. His fingers are tingling. He feels wet and unsteady and _wrong_ , and it's good. He wants to hate it. He really wants to hate it.

Ceramic squeaks under his fingers, and Derek takes the mug from him before he breaks it.

"Jesus," he says, then can't manage anything else until he swallows again.

"You ok?" Scott asks carefully, quietly.

"No, really no." That comes out as barely more than a whisper, but they both hear it.

"You look better," Scott offers, and all that really does is make Stiles wonder what he'd looked like before. What he looked like _hungry_.

"You're not the one who just ate Bambi's mom."

"Bambi's dad actually," Derek says helpfully.

"That makes it worse somehow. Bambi is now an orphan and it's my fault."

Scott nudges him, a solid thump to the shoulder that sends him swaying.

"How do you feel?"

He doesn't want to say, he doesn't want to admit to anything he's feeling at the moment.

"Like an alcoholic who fell off the wagon," he says instead, because that's as much of the truth as he's prepared to offer right now.

He thinks Derek notices though, he does that when you least expect it, notices things, even if he never mentions them, or acknowledges them, or makes the right choices about any of them. Stiles doesn't know if it even means anything. He's clenching and relaxing his fingers, where he can still feel the faint warmth.

He must do that for longer than he thinks, or long enough to be weird, because Scott's hand wraps round his wrist, a sudden circle of warmth that shocks him out of...something.

"Shit," he says simply.

"You ok?"

He thinks about saying yes, about wiping that look off Scott's face. It would be easy enough. But he can't look away from the mug still hanging loosely in Derek's grip, tilted downwards, droplets of blood falling to hit the grass.

"I honestly don't know," he says, before he can stop himself.

Scott takes the mug from Derek, takes it inside. Derek takes two steps forward and reluctantly take Scott's place. He's quiet for so long that Stiles doesn't think he's going to speak. Awkward silences are usually Stiles's cue to leave. But he figures being dead means he can sit wherever he likes and ignore Derek's glowering.

"He's just happy that you're still alive," Derek grates out, and Stiles wonders how long exactly he was thinking up something to say.

Stiles gives him a significant look, and Derek's mouth tightens briefly.

"That you're still around," he corrects.

"For the moment," Stiles counters. "It's not like people aren't regularly showing up to kill you, and you don't even have to eat people."

Derek ignores that, because it's not like he hasn't made a habit of trying to ignore the really complicated shit in the hope that it might go away. Stiles, unfortunately, doesn't have the luxury of sweeping the fact that he's a freakin' vampire now under the rug. Though maybe Derek's trying to be a sensible adult, just this once, because he sighs and tips his head forward, stares at Stiles from under his ridiculous eyebrows.

"You need someone around you. You should tell your dad."

"And how exactly am I supposed to explain this to him? Hey dad, I got bitten by a vampire, but it's cool I can totally live off woodland animals. You'll have to forgive me if I turn into the poster boy for poor self-control when the sun goes down. Oh, and psychopaths will probably show up eventually to saw my head off and _shove a stake through my heart_."

"And the alternative is what? You somehow convince him that you're dead, and you never see him again, or stay missing, and he spends the next twenty years looking for you."

"I don't want him involved in this," Stiles argues. "He's my dad."

"He's already involved in this." Derek says it so calmly, as if it's obvious. Stiles wants to tell him that he's wrong, that he's been trying so damn hard to make sure that none of this spilled over towards him. But he knows that would be a lie.

"Well then maybe I just don't want any of this crap to be part of his life."

"This crap," Derek gestures, angrily, somehow managing to include the both of them and Scott as well. "This is you, this is your life now."

Stiles scrubs both hands through his hair, leaves it sticking up in a million directions.

"I can't do this - I don't want to, do you even know how fucked up all this is from the outside? What the hell is my future going to be like, assuming I have one? I can't put all of that on him."

Scott appears behind him, shoves him over so he can sit down again.

"We'll come with you, if you want."

"Do you think that'll help, bring home the werewolves as a first course, and the vampire son as dessert won't seem so bad?" He really needs to stop with the food metaphors. 

Scott sighs and leans into him, slings an arm round him. Stiles isn't sure if he should be relieved that Scott's clearly getting past the possibility that Stiles might eat him, because as far as he's concerned that's still a thing, a thing that might happen. His biology has always been kind of shitty.

"Dude, it's your dad, you already know you're going back."

Stiles elbows him, and Scott gives a little grunt and rubs his chest.

"Sun's going down," he wheezes out.

"You're a fragile baby deer," Stiles mutters, because that's maybe the only bright side he's found so far. Then he sighs and leans back against the steps, feels the dig of wood against his back, and thinks about his own house, which isn't a great, rotting, burnt-out wreck. "Ok, fine, but you're both coming with me. He's never going to believe this unless I bring witnesses, who also happen to be werewolves."

He figures tomorrow morning would probably be better, once the sun's up - once he looks less like a dead person.


End file.
